


The Dream

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dark, F/M, Fear, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: What if dreams could be shared? Set during 15x05.
Relationships: Demon!Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings.

You’ve just skidded to a halt when Sam falls with a meaty thump to the tile. Your gut seizes, mouth gone bone dry. Dean stands there, hunched and looming, that ghastly blade still clenched in his fist, crooked teeth and bone glistening with syrupy crimson. 

_God, what have you done?! _Your mind shrieks, but your tongue lies heavy and still. Sam’s head is tilted toward you, messy chestnut hair draped over his eyes and bridge of his nose - but you can see his mouth, can see his still-pink lips parted, the blood streaming steady, staining the plump and pooling under his cheek.

Dean hums deep, more of a grunt really, and lifts his head. The Blade twitches in his pale-knuckled grip. “Y’missed one hell of a show, buttercup,” the demon rumbles, sick grin audible in the words. “He sure did have a mean right hook. He did.” He sounds almost solemn, like he’s grieving for… what? For the fight? The violence he’s just snuffed out? Out of his own brother? 

A hot prickling crawls its way from your belly to your throat. It tastes like acid.

Dean bends his neck left, then right, a sharp crackle cutting through the stifling quiet with the movement. You should run, a voice finally murmurs from the horrified fog in your skull, but your muscles are like stone, worn boots cemented to the concrete landing. Dean turns slow, and an icy coil winds its way around you with the motion. 

“D-Dean…” you manage, his name a breathy whimper as it pushes between your teeth. He stands as tall as always, burgundy sleeves shoved up to his elbows, muscled forearms loose yet built at his sides. The light is faint but you’re sure his eyes are black.

His shoulders quake with the laugh before it even reaches his mouth, teeth blinding, almost sharp as his lips part and stretch. “Your face!” he says, nearly wheezing, and you can almost see the crinkles at the corners of those once-charming eyes. He huffs twice, the glee belly-deep. “You - you look like ya just seen a monster for the first time.”

The tears take you by surprise, you’ve never been one to weep when stricken with raw terror. You blink the sting away. “You… you… oh g-”

“Yeah…” the demon gleams. “Guess I _am_ a monster…” he turns with the words, gives his cooling brother a vacant glimpse, and shrugs. “Oh well.”

“Oh well?!” Your voice comes out much sharper, much stronger than you’d expected, and you nearly choke with it. “He’s your-“ God. “He was your brother!”

Dean slowly, _calculatingly_ slowly, angles his head to you. “Yeah.” His eyes must be green again because the dim light catches on milky white sclera. Full, ruddy lips pucker in a mocking pout. “You had to know it was always gonna end like this.” His chin dips as he takes a rasping step forward. “First, it was Dad. Told me I had t’kill Sammy. Did ya know that?”

Your head shakes slow.

“Yeah… Hell - I was… I was still practically a kid. It was right before he died. In that same damned hospital.” You must look confused because his brows lift, head dipping further. “The car accident?”

Oh. Oh, yes - he’d told you all about that, about the demon and the coma. About how John had sacrificed his life to save Dean. You’d cried, blamed it on the whiskey because you still had your walls up then, couldn’t admit that those soft, wet, green eyes held your heart and soul. “Yeah,” you whisper, wrap your hands around your biceps like it can somehow sooth your flayed nerves.

Dean looks back down at the crusting blood on his prized weapon. “Said I had to if he ever went dark.”

_But he didn’t! _Your head rattles with the retort, but you’re throat’s locked tight.

“But you always found a way,” you manage to croak out, voice a raw gravel. “You’d die for each other - you did - you literally _died_ for each other!” You can’t stop the sob from bubbling up, get a hand clamped over your mouth, doubled over now; crippled from pain and shock and empty despair. 

Dean chuckles, throaty and - and _genuine_. “But it’s so poetic!” he beams, cheeks a golden glow. “Cain…” you don’t miss the glance to the puffy red raised proud against the calm pale of his right forearm as he brushed a thumb over the swell of it. “And Abel.” He takes another smooth step. “And then - then there was the Apocalypse… Michael versus Lucifer.” He takes a breath, eyes fluttering closed. “The most _epic_ face-off.”

“But you stopped it!” The words come out guttural and desperate, laced with every raw, flickering nerve of anguish. 

Dean’s eyes crack back open, and he smiles easy, too easy. “No, sugar. We _delayed_ it. Maybe not the end of the world, but our destiny-”

“Fuck destiny!” Your throat burns, and you can’t stop it, can’t stop your gaze from dropping back down to Sam, to that too-still heap of flesh and muscle and flannel. “Fuck destiny,” you whisper-echo yourself. 

The demon cackles then, voice full and thick, the sound a cracking boom through the stagnant quiet. “So dramatic!” he quips, slaps a palm to his chest. He goes unnervingly serious then, face drawn, eyes a dark jade. “This was always going to happen.” He leans down, hands braced to his knees, the literal Damned, soiled Blade tucked underneath his thumb. “Sometimes…” Your former savior’s face morphs into a twisted parody of concern. “Sometimes life’s greatest lesson is teaching us to accept our fate.”

“No…” you breathe, rising. “No, this-”

“Take for example,” he says, tucks the weapon into the back of his jeans. “Us.”

“What?”

“You’n me.” He grin stretches wide enough you half expect his lips to crack bloody. “We kinda had a thing goin’ on - once or twice?” 

You reel back, shell-shocked at the sudden change of direction. He can’t expect you to reflect on that; of the drunken make outs, of clumsy groping fingers - not _now_.

“What?” You try again, dumb. 

He walks slow, and god, why aren’t you fucking moving - why aren’t you _running_?

“I’ve had my share of pussy,” he gloats, proud and bold, “but I ain’t had yours.”

It’s not like you’re a stranger to dirty talk (even as vile as this), but the abrasiveness in his voice, the gut-clenching _lewdness_ of his words-

“The hell?” Your voice startles you once again, but before you can muster another thought, a massive hand _seizes_ your throat, fingers harsh and tight, the scratchy tips of them bruising into the meat of your neck. A dull, fat pain blooms out from the back of your skull as it cracks against the stone frame. You gasp against the constriction, try to butt a knee against him to loosen the hold, but he only draws himself In closer, plasters himself solid against you.

“Like you haven’t wanted it,” he huffs, breath hot and spicy and damp against your mouth. He licks at your lips, catches the bottom pillow between perfectly set teeth, bites just hard enough to let you feel the ache before letting go. 

“S-stop!” you hiss, but it only seems to goad him on because his fingers press deeper, icy smirk stretching to a broad grin. “Please!” It comes out faint and garbled, but you try anyway. “Stop-” You get both hands around the rock-hard muscle of his arm, get all your strength into pulling at his grip, but he may as well be made of stone. “_Jusstop_!” you choke, fresh panic icing you over when Dean shifts, fits his heavy thigh between yours. A sob bubbles up and cracks free. “Th-this isn’t you!” 

“Shh…” he breathes against you, and the roll of a shoulder tells you he’s reaching behind-

“_Nononono!_” The bone of the Blade is still mottled with sticky red, the dull overhead light catching on the gleaming wet of it. He holds it a whisper to your cheek, close enough you can smell the awful metallic of death. “Please…”

Emerald dies under oily black.

*

You come to with a heaving breath, suddenly aware of a hand closed around your shoulder, shaking you to full consciousness. 

“We gotta go! C’mon, they’re gone - we gotta go!” 

_Sam_ \- oh, thank god! Warm relief floods you at the realization that it was only a dream, but quickly fades back to terror at the recollection of what had sent you to sleep in the first place: 

Lilith. 

Sam helps you to your feet, where you waver for a beat, your hand instinctively going to your throat because it’s still all so vivid and real-

“You okay?” Sam asks. 

“Huh? Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” You take a breath to clear your head and give him your best smile. “Let’s go.”


End file.
